


repose in new ways

by nothanksweregood (foreverkneeld)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Carter Doesn't Get Paid Enough For This, D/s elements, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverkneeld/pseuds/nothanksweregood
Summary: You know sometimes you think you're going to write a crack fic and then it turns into a 2k+ essay about John Reese's issues as viewed through a lense of weird d/s stuff? Yeah.





	repose in new ways

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for John's canonical issues and also possible suicidal ideation? John is not in a great place here but also isn't actively suicidal. 
> 
> also i do Not recommend this method of negotiation even without the sexytimes its not Great. obvs this is fiction and a product of a fevered brain please be safe!
> 
> title is from owl city's Vanilla Twilight

They’ve just wrapped up saving the latest number. It was a (depressingly) routine case of an ex not understanding that no means no, a mental exercise John helped him out with by holding him by the ankle over the edge of a building for a few minutes and then leaving him dumped on the roof for Carter to finish.

After Martina has hugged them both tearfully and promised them free pastries for life at her cafe (something John might be taking her up on; goodness knows Harold has a sweet tooth), John turns from watching her safely back into her building to see Carter staring at him and frowning.

“What.” John says, because it hadn’t even been  _ him _ using excessive force this time, and the guy was already out cold in the back of her car, so he hasn’t had to threaten him again or anything. 

“You know what I just realised?” Carter says thoughtfully, and then goes on without waiting for a response, “You didn’t get shot.”

John blinks. Had she -  _ wanted _ him to get shot? Is this some kind of elaborate payback for him switching out her regular lattes for decaf last week? Seems like getting shot is a bit extreme, but this is Carter, so who knows. “Sorry.” Is what he settles on, because that’s usually a safe bet.

Except now she’s looking horrified, so maybe not. “What the hell, John! It’s  _ good _ you didn’t get shot!”

“Oh.” John takes a second to digest this. “Okay?”

Carter looks at him for a long minute and then shakes her head. “Disturbing self destructive tendencies aside, why is that, exactly? I mean, we’re good, but that guy had basically a semi automatic machine gun. I feel like at least  _ one _ of those bullets should’ve hit you somewhere, no matter how bad a shot he is.”

“Just lucky, I guess.” John shifts, minute. Finch is waiting for him back at the library, and if he hurries, he can make it to Lembas Bros before they close and pick up some of those pastries Finch likes.

“Lucky.” Carter tilts her head, lips a little pursed. “Yeah. All right.”

She doesn’t add anything else, though, so John shrugs mentally and writes it off. He has free pastries to pick up, after all.

Two weeks later, though, there’s a shoot out between two rival gangs that their number is involved in, and even John feels like he definitely should have at least been winged, but he comes out of it without a scratch. Literally. For probably the first time in - months? Years, even. He doesn’t have a single mark on him. Not a scratch, not a bruise, not so much as a stubbed toe. He tells Finch this, frowning, after the number’s safely home and they’re in the library, taking down and filing the board’s contents.

Finch looks puzzled. “Isn’t that a good thing, Mr. Reese?”

“Finch,” John says, fingertips pausing over a picture of the number’s smiling five year old son, “You knew how dangerous this job was when you hired me. I knew it would be dangerous before I woke up handcuffed to a bed listening to someone be murdered next door to me. I accepted that. But I’m not hurt.  _ At all. _ I walked into a  _ fire-fight _ .”

“You are a man of exceptional skills,” Finch says, adjusting his glasses with a well-kept hand. “Perhaps you are - if you will permit me the colloquialism - ‘just that good’?”

“No one is that good,” John says, grimly, and goes home to type ‘what to do when you’re not getting hurt any more’ into the search bar of the laptop Finch gave him. The results are not helpful.

Carter, in a completely unsurprising turn of events, turns out to be the one who figures it out. She tosses a file into his lap on their last stakeout, using her now free hand to relieve him of his coffee, draining the last half of it with a satisfied noise.

John opens it to find Karen Garner’s picture smiling up at him. He looks at Carter.

“Karen Garner, also known as Sarah Jennings, also known as Dagmara Domińczyk.”

John looks at Carter a little harder. She tilts him a smile. 

“She’s Polish. Family came to New York back in the eighties, back when we actually took in asylum seekers.” Carter’s jaw clenches a little, but she shakes her head, going back to the point. “Also a practicing Wiccan.”

“She’s -” John stops, tries again. “You’re saying she cursed me?”

“Blessed, more like.” Carter arches an eyebrow at him. “Not getting shot in a few weeks ringing a bell?”

John shakes his head, slowly. Witches can’t be real, because if they had, the CIA would’ve been using them. Or, no. There’d be a whole damn agency of them. And also because -

“Harold’s not gonna believe this.”

 

* * *

 

Harold does not believe this. Carter’s been thorough all right, tracked Sarah - Karen - down and asked her some questions and she’d admitted it right away. 

“She wanted to do something nice for you fellas,” Carter’s got her arms crossed, that little smirk on her face that says she’s enjoying this. “Said she thought about making you irresistible to the ladies but she figured you had that one covered already.”

“Nice of her.” John says. “How do we get her to take it off?”

“Take it off?” Carter’s body goes from a relaxed slouch to aggressive. The way her hands are clenching suggest she’s looking for something to throw at him. “John, it’s  _ protection _ . I got a couple aunts who practice - she’s doin’ something nice for you. Wouldn’t kill you to just say thank you and be grateful you ain’t dead.”

“I don’t need -” John starts, but it’s too loud, he can hear it, can feel Harold’s startled eyes on his back. He digs a knuckle into his thigh, hard, in lieu of having a bruise to do it to, and starts over. “I can take care of myself.”

“As absurd as I find the idea of some sort of  _ spell _ giving you protection, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, “I must confess to being confused why you wouldn’t want said protection. If, of course, it existed. No offense meant to Detective Carter’s relatives, of course.”

John glances away. His mouth feels suddenly dry, and he wishes he hadn’t turned down Finch’s offer of tea. It’s an insane thing to be mad about, he knows, but the one thing he always had control over - the only thing, for a lot of years - was when he died. Oh, he didn’t think he was invincible, that wasn’t it. Far from it, most times, but. If it ever got to be too much. The work he and Kara did. Even back in his army days. Now, with the constant stream of numbers. Knowing he could walk into the right bullet, that he could turn a blind eye to that second sniper, the man in the dark alley with a knife and the mind to use it. For someone to have taken that away from him -

“Is this about what you said earlier?” Carter says, and her body language’s changed again. Loose, now, inviting. “John, are you - you can tell us, you know. If there’s something wrong.”

He knows what she’s talking about. He knows she’s worried. He still doesn’t say anything until Harold’s voice comes from behind him, closer, now, and a thin thread of worry John still isn’t used to hearing directed at him. 

“Mr. Reese?”

He licks his lips, forces himself to look Harold in the face. “I’m not suicidal,” he grits out. “Just don’t like people messing with things that aren’t theirs to touch.”

There. That’s the truth, or enough of it that they should back off about it.

And Carter relaxes, good. Harold - turns a shade paler, looks vaguely sick for a long heartbeat before he nods and turns abruptly back to his desk, shuffling some papers and clearing his throat. “Very well, then. Detective Carter, if you wouldn’t mind speaking to Ms. Jennings -”

“You’re going to let him take it off?” Carter demands, incredulous.

Harold turns his body to look at her, eyebrows raised in that faux surprise he does so well. “Mr. Reese is allowed to make decisions regarding his own body, Detective. If he wishes to have this -  _ spell _ \- put back on, presumably he will ask for it.”

Carter frowns, but nods once, sharp, before turning on her heel and making for the door. John looks at Harold. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Harold is brisk, straightening some of the papers and closing the file before reaching for his coat. “You were, of course, entirely correct.”

John nods, even though Harold isn’t looking, and gets to his feet, reaching for his own coat.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says, and John stops, looks. “If I have -” Finch pauses, clears his throat. “That is, if you don’t wish to wear the suits - you are, of course, free to - make your own sartorial choices.”

John can’t help staring, because. It’s so far from what he had been thinking when he made his objections to the spell. And now Harold thinks - “But I am yours.” he says, before his brain catches up.

For the second time in as many minutes, Harold goes pale. “Mr. Reese.”

“I didn’t -” John shakes his head, frustrated with himself. He keeps messing up. “Apologies, Finch. It’s been a long day. I’m fine with the suits.” He snatches his jacket. He’ll go home, and have the better part of a bottle of scotch, and tomorrow they’ll both be professionals about this, and it’ll be  _ fine _ .

“One moment, Mr. Reese.”

Conditioned to balance on a knife-edge on the word of that voice, John stops at once. And the tone is. Different. There’s a richness to those four words, a lingering over the vowels and snapping on the consonants, and a fullness that reaches all the way down to somewhere in the middle of John’s navel and  _ pulls _ .

“Turn around, please.”

John obeys. Harold looks the same as he always does - immaculate suit, precisely tied tie, fussy glasses, standing with his weight a little to one side to relieve his hip. His eyes, though, are fastened on John with an expression that John can only term hunger. “Your implication is that you are mine to touch, then.”

John swallows, and manages a nod. Harold takes a step closer.

“Mine to choose whether you wear a suit.”

Another step.

“Or nothing at all.”

John’s throat is too dry even to swallow, now. Harold is close enough that if he tilted his head down, even just a little bit -

“Why don’t you kneel for me, John.” Harold’s voice is as matter of fact as it is telling John the swiftest way to a number’s residence, as calm as though he is simply commenting on the weather.

Soundless, John sinks to his knees, bowing his head and staring at Harold’s doubtlessly incredulously expensive Italian shoes. His entire body feels as though someone has come along and borrowed all of his muscles, leaving him powerless and entirely placid at Harold’s feet.

“Tell me,” Harold says, one hand sliding underneath John’s chin and lifting it, meeting his eyes. “If I told you I wished for Ms. Jennings to leave the spell on, to further protect you, body and soul, from harm, would you tell me no?”

John shakes his head, a negation. If Harold wanted - if Harold wished it -

“Why, John?”

John licks his lips, desperate. “Please, Harold.”

The hand on his chin tightens. “Why.”

“Because I’m yours,” John bursts out, “If you - I trust you. You would tell me if I - if I need to step into a bullet. If that was the right thing.”

“Ah.”

John tries to look down, away, but Harold’s fingers are tight, unrelenting, and nothing in his cool gaze seems to have changed. 

“You wish for me to be able to stop you. Because you don’t trust yourself to know when you’ve gone too far.”

“Yes,” John whispers, eyes fluttering shut, thankful. 

“Very well. Here is what is going to happen. We are going to go to your loft. You will shower, thoroughly, and wait for me on your bed. There is no need to put on anything more than underthings. I am going to call Detective Carter and have her request Ms. Jennings make a few...modifications to the spell. It will remain on, with one exception. Any sensation inflicted by myself, painful or pleasurable, will penetrate. Is this acceptable, John?”

John’s head is spinning far too much from the combination of Harold’s precise voice saying ‘painful or pleasurable’ not to mention ‘penetrate’ to manage anything more than a nod. Harold can stop him, then, if he goes too far. Harold will make sure John is good.

 

* * *

 

 

“I wonder,” Harold says, some minutes later, only a very little breathless, “if she has changed the spell yet. Shall we put it to the test?” And, oh, he’s reaching for his belt, expensive imported Italian leather, and John turns, repositioning his hands immediately on the headboard and pulling his knees underneath himself, exposing his back and legs for anything Harold wants of him.

Instead of the heavy thud-slap of leather on skin, though, there’s a touch, fingers tracing up his ribs and rubbing slowly over his stomach, right where John has begun to grow a little soft. He begins to suck it in, automatic, but he does feel the first bite of the belt at that - only a tap, less than nothing, but a clear reprimand. 

“I would have all of you, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, precise. “I believe we established this earlier.”

He pauses, and John realises he’s waiting for an answer. 

“Yes,” John gasps out, feeling dizzy with so many secret desires granted all at once. “Yes, I’m sorry, Harold.”

“Good boy.” Harold’s hands resume their wandering, indifferent to the new wave of tremors that chased one another over John’s body in response to the phrase. “Now, to the experiment.”

John’s back arches with the first real blow, body welcoming the thudding of pain like a spring rushes eagerly downhill to its greater tributary. He spreads his knees farther, opening himself up as much as he can, exposing as much skin for Harold’s touch, Harold’s marks, as physically possible. Nothing is going to touch him that Harold doesn’t allow, and there’s a heady freedom in that that John never thought he could possess, and his entire being thrills to it, to the joy of knowing his place. At Harold’s feet, at his side, as his shield, and the recipient of anything Harold will give him.


End file.
